


Pleasing the Gifted

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, M/M, Otterlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John needs the help of a chemist. Lucky for him, his flatmate's a chemist, though a mad scientist type of one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleasing the Gifted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hal is absolutely not ladylike](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hal+is+absolutely+not+ladylike).



When John got out of the shower, he trailed into the kitchen in his housecoat. That wasn’t unusual, as he’d get a cup of tea and go to his room to get dressed. His short hair would probably be dry by then, or at least not wet enough to moisten his clean shirt. As such, Sherlock didn’t pay much attention to John, concentrating on his violin. He wasn’t playing, just plucking random notes while he tried to get up the energy to play. A week without even a hint of a case was stealing the joy even from playing.

When John set a cup of tea on the table in front of Sherlock, he also sat himself down next to Sherlock on the couch. That was different, but only different enough to get Sherlock to slowly look up. John had his ‘we need to talk’ face on, and Sherlock was bored of the conversation already. 

“No, this isn’t an emotional talk,” John said. “Nor have you done anything horrendous that I have to yell at you for.” 

Interested, Sherlock shifted more of his attention to John. 

“There was an article in my medical journal, about a new treatment for neuromuscular disorders.” 

Sherlock let his eyes drift to the journal, curled up in John’s chair. He’d left it there last night before bed. The journal’s spine was broken, showing the start of the article he’d read repeatedly since it had arrived. Sherlock had seen that, though he had yet to determine why John was rereading it. Learning about John through the publication was interesting, since most people took it electronically these days. 

“Yes, that one.” John continued. “The treatment is mildly successful, and they are trying to isolate which part of the organic compound is producing the effect.” 

Sherlock plucked a string; so far, so obvious. 

“Well, I’m bringing it up, because I tried to help.” 

“Before the last case, you weren’t cleaning my equipment, you were using it.” Like he’d had a jolt of caffeine, Sherlock was sudden alert. John had just made himself even more interesting. 

“Right, didn’t think I could sneak that by you. But, damn it, I’m a doctor, not a research chemist, like you.” John’s lips were twitching, as if at some joke, but Sherlock ignored that. 

“You want me to cure neuromuscular disorders?” 

“Not exactly, though you’d certainly help.” John shrugged, not sure if curing anything was motivation enough for Sherlock. “I want you to analyze this other chemical, and find out if it will work better for their purposes.” 

“Why not just tell them to try this ‘other’ chemical?” Sherlock scoffed at John’s idea, but he was interested. 

John shifted on the couch, and sipped his tea. This then, was where the issue got tricky or sensitive for him. 

“What is this chemical, John?” 

John opened his mouth to reply, but what came out was the ring of the doorbell. John’s face shifted between exasperated and relieved, so he didn’t want to say what he decided to say. “I’m in me robe.” 

Sherlock shrugged, uncaring. 

“Mrs. Hudson’s out, and it might be a client.” 

With a sigh designed to show how exhausting answering the door was, Sherlock stood. He placed his violin in the case, and when the doorbell rang a second time he went for a drink of tea. At long last, he made it to the front door of the flat, which was shoved inward when he opened it. Two men stormed into the flat, guns drawn. Running feet could be heard on the stairs, so a third, a lookout, was joining them. 

Sherlock backed away, and John got to his feet, dropping into a fighting stance. Neither would make a move until they were sure of the intentions of the gunmen. After all, they had codes to respond to this sort of thing. The biggest man went for John, circling behind him and putting the gun to his head. The thug’s other arm went around John’s throat, just in case the threat wasn’t clear enough. The third thug slammed the door closed and joined the first in pointing their guns at Sherlock, a safe distance away. Instead of getting close enough for Sherlock to attack, they stood where they could fire if he tried anything. 

“We were told to give you time to say goodbye.” The first man said, his accent nearly hidden. 

John and Sherlock looked at each other, both hoping the other had an idea. John spoke first. 

“Sherlock, did you know hedgehogs are more related to shrews than porcupines?” 

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow, as that wasn’t part of any code they’d established. John hunched over a bit, and suddenly the man behind him was jerking away in pain. As the thugs attention shifted to John, Sherlock moved on the first one. He managed to get the gun away, turn it, and hit the man on the head with the butt. Instead of following the man down, to make sure he was out for the count, Sherlock looked for the last attacker. John had him, jabbing something long and sharp into the thug’s leg. The man was slowly going down; eyes already empty as unconsciousness took him. John followed him down, and made sure he was out before pulling out the stabbing thing and hiding it in his robe as he stood. 

“Show me.” Sherlock demanded, even as John pulled zip ties out of a kitchen drawer. 

“You know how to tie people up.” John replied, handing a set to Sherlock. 

“Don’t be purposefully dense.” Sherlock snapped back as he zipped the tie on. 

“How about you report this to the police, solve the case of ‘who attacked my flatmate,’ and I’ll go put on some clothes for when the cops get here.” 

“They’re unconscious, show me and then we’ll call the cops.” Sherlock’s counteroffer sounded more like a counter-demand. 

“That’ll work,” John snarked as he headed for the stairs. “Because you love to be interrupted mid-experiment.” 

John had his cell phone out of his housecoat pocket and was calling Lestrade, so Sherlock had lost the argument by default. Frustrated, Sherlock patted down the attackers. No ID, nothing easily traceable, except the pack of cigarettes in one man’s pocket. Polish writing, so either an easy-to-trace legally imported item or a harder-to-trace illegal item. Not that it mattered, as a certain Polish mobster had been sentenced to life in prison yesterday, based on Sherlock’s investigation. Hired revenge gone wrong: boring. 

Examining the one that held John though, his injuries might provide clues as to what John was about to show him. Pulling up the man’s shirts, Sherlock found a really thick mat of fur; a bear anthromorph. The fur was too thick to move and see the wounds John caused, so Sherlock went for the electric razor in the bathroom. John walked into the living room before Sherlock made it back, and Sherlock realized what John would say. Shaving an unconscious man to determine what your flatmate was hiding might be a bit not good, so Sherlock put the clippers back. 

Mainly because pissing off John now would make him keep what was under his jumper hidden that much longer, Sherlock headed for the couch. Waiting for Lestrade in his thinking pose, Sherlock heard John make tea for the cops and thought about anthros. People had first started showing animal traits after World War II, and since then a great deal of thought and mysticism had been put toward understanding them. Many of these efforts forgot that correlation was not causation. 

While it was true that many of the people on the police force had dog traits, the best leaders were often of other species. Lestrade himself had a silver foxtail that let Sally and the dogs of the police force know when he was angry. It also made the ginger foxtail of the British government twitch in delight, but Lestrade hadn’t noticed Mycroft’s interest yet. Wings were considered a sign of independence, and raven wings a sign of intelligence. Mrs. Hudson’s raven wings hadn’t stopped her from eloping with a serial killer, though. 

Granted, he hadn’t killed until a few years later, when he decided God had put him on the Earth to rid it anthros. He’d taken victims to a remote spot in the Florida Everglades, removed their anthro traits, and left them for the alligators to dispose of. Only one person had noticed that all the bodies found among the alligators had their anthro traits removed before death. Mr. Hudson simply hadn’t seen the junkie trailing him as he dragged his tied but struggling wife off the side of US 41. He’d taken hedge trimmers to the joint of one of Mrs. Hudson’s wings before the junkie got close enough that he was seen. Mrs. Hudson screams of pain turned to cries for help when she saw him, but Mr. Hudson went to cut the other wing from her back. He got halfway through before Sherlock was jerking away the hedge trimmers and knocking Mr. Hudson out with them. 

The police had believed Mr. Hudson when he’d said it was his first attempted kill, so Sherlock had found the evidence of the sixteen previous victims. He’d entered rehab for the first time, so he could help Mrs. Hudson through her recovery. He was sober for court, but relapsed when Mrs. Hudson’s second wing had to be surgically removed since it would not heal. 

So not all people with dog traits were cops, and not all raven wings were the wisest among people. Sherlock himself hated the beach, hated swimming, he wasn’t cuddly, and there was no way he’d ever frolic; so there was no reason for his anthro traits to come from a sea otter. Sometimes handy to have his ears close to keep out water, when he had to jump in the Thames for example, but the thick, keel of a tail he kept down his right pant leg was completely useless. The tail was as sensitive as his head hair, an almost erogenous zone he had to keep out of his enemy’s awareness. He had strange dreams about John stroking his head and tail, and other bits that stuck out, but he refused to allow those into his waking thoughts. But what could John possibly be hiding under those jumpers? 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Case solved, attackers gone, cops gone, tea drunk, Mrs. Hudson fended off for the night, and Sherlock turned to John. 

“Show me.” 

John started to protest, but looked around. Sherlock watched as John made a list and realized it matched Sherlock’s, and that they were alone for now. Standing, John pulled off his jumper and pullover. In only his undershirt he moved over to the couch and sat facing the arm. Must want something to lean on while I examine his back, Sherlock deduced, and sat behind him. John pulled off his shirt at long last, and leaned over the arm so Sherlock could look his fill. 

Soft looking spines or maybe quills, trailed down John’s back. They varied in length, with the longest ones in the center of his back. Only short ones covered his waist, which allowed him a normal range of motion. The colours matched his hair, insomuch as anything could match that riot of colours. Beautiful, and capable of rendering a man unconscious if John wanted. John had sex with women, enough to earn a nickname, so it wasn’t because he was knocking them all out, therefor he had control over when the sedative would be released. Still, Sherlock wanted to touch it so bad it made his hands tremble, so he should ask permission. 

“Blond here as well?” He asked instead. 

“Leucistic colour variation, as if you didn’t know, of the _Erinaceus europaeus_.” 

“But not a true leucistic, or you wouldn’t be able to tan, my little European hedgehog.” 

“Don’t think I won’t stab you with these, like I did that second thug.” 

“You have that much control?” 

“I have to roll forward to get them to stand up.” 

“Like a hedgie has to roll up before sticking its spikes out.” Sherlock was grinning as he began to stroke the spines. They twitched under his touch but didn’t stick up in a defensive way. He eventually found the one John had broken off to stab the second thug with. Once again, John had given up part of himself to save their lives. Sherlock wanted to lean forward and kiss that broken spine, taste John’s poison, but John’s words stopped him. 

“Shrews have poisonous teeth.” John mentioned conversationally. 

“Do they?” 

“And shrews and hedgehogs have a common ancestor.” 

“I see. This common ancestor is closer to what you are, as your spikes are poisonous.” 

“Brilliant.” 

“You can’t tell the scientific community without making yourself a lab rat, sorry, lab shrew. You want me to figure out the formula of your poison and see if it will help the neuromuscular disorders.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Your healing side demands that you do all you can to help, even as you refuse to be put in a cage. A loner, yet you still need the occasional vocal interaction and a chance to mate.” 

“You do seem to know about hedgehogs, though I’m not sure why. I don’t think I want to know if one was used as a murder weapon.” 

This was a very personal thing to John, that much was obvious, and he was trusting Sherlock with it. In his own way, Sherlock replied in kind. “Since my parents wouldn’t get me a dog, I tried to convince them to get me a hedgehog. They didn’t.” 

“I’m not a substitute for a pet.” 

“Oh, no, you’re far more interesting. Just when I think I know you, you take off a jumper and present me with a marvelous mystery.” 

“I don’t have any left after this one.” 

“When we’re old and grey, I’ll tell you if that’s true.” 

“Planning our retirement already?” 

There was silence, as Sherlock realized he’d already said too much. He wasn’t planning on anything, just dreaming about it when he let himself sleep. The plans for their cottage in the country were contingency plans, and not very likely at that. He wasn’t even going to bring up his fascination with bees until John was fifty, give him ten years or so to get used to the idea. How long had he been building up this impossible fantasy in his mind? How long had he been staring at John’s back instead of answering a simple, joking question? Right, it was a joke, respond in kind. 

“Retire with you? We’ll be lucky if we don’t kill each other first.” 

“Sherlock.” John said, and Sherlock’s mind whirled into a panic. 

He’d waited too long to reply, and John had figured out the truth. How to fix this? John was already sitting up, turning around, and he was going to say something, let Sherlock down gently, pack up and leave. 

“Look at me,” John commanded, and Sherlock obeyed. “It sounds lovely, retiring with you. After all, I’ve pretty much given up on the chance to mate in order to have more vocal interactions with you.” 

John’s face, his mobile, smiling face, was honest and sincere, but it still took Sherlock a long moment to realize what his words were saying. 

“You want to stay with me?” 

“Forever.” 

“Isolate yourself in a small country cabin with me?” 

“That actually sounds great. I don’t know if I ever told you, but I’ve always wanted to be a beekeeper.” John ducked his head as if embarrassed by this lowly ambition for a doctor, soldier, and blogger. 

Sherlock reached out to tilt that head up, grasping that chin in preparation to telling him that was a fantastic goal. When Sherlock looked in John’s eyes and opened his mouth to speak, he leaned forward and kissed the man instead. Open mouthed, rather sloppy, and that was all the analysis Sherlock got in before John was taking control, turning the kiss into mouth sex. Sherlock heard a moan, couldn’t care about determining the origin of the noise, and realizing this, melted into John. The poor man now had his back curved over the arm of the couch, but he wasn’t complaining. When he finally did break the kiss, it was so they could rest their foreheads together and pant. John spoke first. 

“So I can practice my mating dance on you?” 

“Hedghogs don’t…” Sherlock stopped the automatic correction when he realized what John was asking. “I would be highly insulted if you didn’t take me to the bedroom for a practice right now. I’ll need examples of all your bodily fluids, if I’m to figure out the medical uses for your toxins.” 

John grinned at him, so Sherlock grinned back. Then they were up and moving to Sherlock’s bedroom, John rubbing Sherlock’s tail through his trousers. Ears wide open, Sherlock was ready for whatever mysteries this man sent him next. 


End file.
